


You Love Me Not

by mundaneanarchy



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Denial, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Second Person, Trust Issues, intimacy issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-03 12:09:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4100434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mundaneanarchy/pseuds/mundaneanarchy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story of love and coping with love told from the second-person perspective of Newt.</p><p>Newt loves Hermann and Hermann loves Newt but sometimes it's not that easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Love Me Not

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my unfinished works folder accumulating dust for months so if it seems ill-wrought or incomplete, it's because I just dragged it out of the darkness out of pure boredom and curiosity. Hope it's not too unreadable.

It begins, as most things do, with sound.

Loud, painful, uncontrollable sound, to be exact: cries of triumph and success and voices filled with the rich tones of glory. The clock stops and the room is deafening, ears pounding with the sound of applause and cheers and sobs ringing through them. There is hope and there is love and there is pain and there is loss and it’s impossible to know where to start or how to end.

It all goes silent, though, when he looks at you.

And you wonder why that is; if you’ve actually lost your hearing from the overwhelming amounts of noise or if you’re experiencing a stroke, perhaps. But it is neither of those things, you reason. This hurts more, somehow.

His eyes are wide and brown, Jesus Christ, have they always been that brown, and there is a red ring around his left one that fills you with a sense of purpose, with the illusion of possession. Blood red and devastating, just like he is on the inside.

And his shoulder presses up against yours and god, he’s beautiful, god, he’s lovely. His shoulder bumps against yours and he smiles down at you like it’s a secret and your heart hurts so badly you think it might burst. And he’s smiling down at you with those big, brown, bloodshot eyes and it feels like a disaster zone, it feels like what you’ve been warned about all your life but never stopped to take the time to consider. And he’s smiling at you and he’s more beautiful than anything you’ve ever seen and he feels like home and you stare up at him and suddenly you forget what it’s like to breathe. And you’re staring up at him with the reverence of someone who hasn’t known God until this moment and you know that he can’t save you but you think that maybe he would die trying which is at once both exhilarating and petrifying and it is in that split second that you know that there is no one else you would rather suffer for than this man, this beautiful man who sees constellations inside people who can’t even muster the brilliance of a star.

Loving Hermann Gottlieb is loving the universe all at once. It is all-encompassing and terrifying but you can’t drag yourself away from its intoxicating gravitational pull for even a second.

You said you wouldn’t do this, you said you’d never do this, but you do it anyway. You throw your arm around him and you pull him close and the smile on your face hurts, every bone in your pathetic, obsessive body aches. He fits in your arms, he just fits there, and you find yourself regretting every minute he’s spent out of them.

You don’t let him leave your sight for the rest of the party, not for a second. It’s not that hard of a feat, at least, because about twenty minutes later he’s leaning on you harder than he was at first, and he’s starting to look a little pale in the face. You lean up and whisper in his ear, “This party’s kinda lame. Think we should head back?”

You know he doesn’t believe you but he smiles appreciatively anyway and nods and neither of you bring up the fact that there’s no need for your arm to be around his waist the entire way back to his room, so it stays there until you reach his door. You reach out to steady him when he steps away from you and you pretend like it’s for his sake instead of yours.

“Thank you,” he says on the stoop of his barracks as he shakes your hand and, before you can say anything in return, he pulls you forward and kisses you on the cheek. It’s chaste and it’s short (too short) and you can barely feel his lips brush against your skin but it’s positively electric. You freeze in place and you can hear your heart pounding in your ears and you’re both just standing there, staring at each other, like there’s too much to do and too little time, even though you’re both aware that it’s quite the opposite.

Time freezes altogether when he pulls you the extra step closer and kisses you so hard you forget how to breathe.

“What was that?” you ask, and it feels like a cry for help.

He licks his lips and looks at you with a softness and a determination you’ve only seen in those eyes once before: hours ago when all you could here was _I’ll go with you, I’ll go with you, I’ll go with you_.

“What do you think it was?” he asks back, playing with the end of your tie between his delicate fingertips. Looking into his eyes is like looking into the sun but you do it, you do it because you feel like looking away could only be a thousand times worse.

“I think it was an explosion,” you say breathlessly and you can’t stop staring at his mouth as if it’s some sort of saving grace.

His hands trail up your tie and you wonder if he can feel your heartbeat beneath his fingers and he can, he can, he most definitely can. You wonder if he knows, how much he knows, if he’s always known. And his hands go further and further up your tie and he draws you closer and closer and then you realize that he knows exactly too much.

If the first kiss froze like ice than the second burns like fire. It scalds your lips and when he brings a hand up to gently cup your jaw it scorches so badly you almost jerk away. It’s all too much but you can’t bring yourself to leave his inebriating touch.

“Come inside,” he whispers feverishly. His breath is hot and sweet against your lips and your hands shake when you reach out to hold his arms to keep from falling down. “Rock stars shouldn’t spend the night alone.”

“You’re gonna make me scream if you keep that up.”

“Later,” he smirks and you feel faint.

You don’t remember how you got inside but you remember slowly stripping yourselves of your clothing and quiet, lazy kissing as you collapse into Hermann’s bed. You remember him pulling you close, ever so close, so close that you wonder if you’ll ever be close enough. He kisses you until your lips are swollen and you can barely keep your eyes open but you won’t let yourself fall asleep because you don’t want to miss a moment of this.

You wake up with his legs tangled around yours and your nose buried in the hollow of his throat. He smells amazing, like peppermint tea and adventure and an untapped beauty that you couldn’t even begin to deserve. You roll him onto his back and climb over him to kiss up his neck and over his jawline and finally tease his mouth with quick, biting kisses.

He smiles as you kiss him awake and traces your hips and the sides of your torso lovingly. You shiver against his touch and pray he never gains full comprehension of the horrifying capacity of your adoration toward him.

“I apologize for my appalling lack of enthusiasm last night,” Hermann says sheepishly, his voice heavy and scratchy with exhaustion. “I’m afraid I was a bit too weary for any extraneous activities.”

“Saving the world will do that to a guy,” you say between kisses, grinning all the while. He smiles back and wraps his arms around your waist to pull you closer.

“You’re gorgeous,” Hermann giggles, and your heart stops and your knees nearly give out. Your lips freeze against his and he cradles your cheek and pulls you back to look you in the eyes. Concern lines his frown and your stomach drops at the thought that that’s for you. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” you swallow thickly and your voice shakes. “I’m just…I’m trying to figure out what I did to deserve you.”

His grin blinds you and he pulls you forward and it’s better than anything else that’s ever happened you, last night’s circumstances included.

…

He fucks like the world falls away at your feet, he fucks like you’re his last hope, he fucks like you’re the only thing left. He leaves bites and scratches and holds you tight enough that it would hurt if it didn’t feel so right. He marks you where he can and kisses you where he can’t. He worships you and it’s the most novel thing you’ve ever felt, being loved this much, being lauded this much. You’d always assumed he thought the worst of you, even on days that were particularly amicable, but it’s easy to confuse frustration with hatred. When he kisses you it still burns and when he presses his fingers to your cheek you still have to fight the urge to run, but you never actually do. You’re still trying to convince yourself he won’t hurt you, and you don’t entirely believe it. Not because he’s not lovely and not because he doesn’t care but because you’ve never had something like this. You’ve never experienced mutual desire; you’ve never experienced healthy.

When he whispers that he loves you in your ear one night you start to hyperventilate and he has to lie you on your back and desperately try to calm you down. His voice is heavy with pain and confusion and you didn’t want to do this to him but you have; and so early, too.

“What happened, Newton?” he asks you when your breathing has returned to normal.

“I just got a little overwhelmed,” you reply, but you know he doesn’t mean what happened just now. He means what happened to you, what made you like this, the way you are now. The jumbled mess of anxiety and neuroses and crippling self-loathing. What makes you think you have to make up for that by dripping in faux arrogance that no one believes for a minute. What the fuck is wrong with you, you narcissistic, pathetic, little shit. What broke you. _Who_ broke you.

“Do you want me to go?”

“No.” You answered too quickly. You’ll scare him away. “I mean, you can. If you want. But…” You shut your eyes tight and you can’t force them to open again.

“I won’t go,” he says and kisses you sweetly and it makes you hate yourself all the more.

…

You’re in his room late one night and he’s sitting on the edge of his bed and you’re sitting in his lap, your knees bracing his hips and his thumbs tracing patterns on your hips.

“You taste like tragedy,” you murmur raggedly into his mouth, “and the promise of regret.”

“You’re projecting again, Newton,” he sighs and you are, you are, you are but you can’t seem to convince yourself that something this composed and brilliant could stand a mess like you and still want to wake up next to you the next day. Because you are not dim or dull but you are certainly an explosion, a seismic eruption with no hope of understanding. There is no comfort or solace beneath your layers of colorful skin, just the assurance that a self-destruct button lies somewhere unknown, ready to be triggered at any moment.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” He kisses like it’s a sigh of regret. He kisses like it’s a rehearsal. “Have you taken your medication yet today?”

You screw your eyes shut and it’s all the answer he needs.

“Go on, then. I’ll wait for you here.”

“Don’t—”

“I won’t even leave the bed. I’ll be right here when you come back. Go on, love. You know you must.”

Cane and deteriorating leg muscle aside, Hermann Gottlieb is by far the strongest man you’ll ever have the pleasure of knowing.

…

“I am here, and you are here, too,” you whisper into the dark, and your voice shakes, and your hand does, too, but you’ve never felt more solid in your entire life. His fingers meander lazily over the sheets until they’re brushing against yours and even after all this time shocks of electricity go down your spine.

His nose nuzzles at the side of your neck and you shiver in response. “Go to sleep, darling.” His breath is wet, hot velvet against your skin.

“I can’t,” you toss and turn and he spreads a warm hand over your stomach to calm you.

“Want me to make you feel better?” he asks with that dark, rich voice that goes straight to your cock. You throw your head back in response and gnaw on your lip as his fingertips edge closer and closer to the waistband of your boxers.

When his hand wraps around you, you gasp and bring the edge of your pillow to your teeth to bite down on it in order to muffle your sobs.

“You,” he whispers into your ear, soft but insistent, “are precious. You are gorgeous, especially like this. Brilliant and beautiful and delectably debauched. I could paint murals of you across cities and hang pictures of you in this state in museums and it could never compare to the intoxicating exquisiteness that your mere presence exudes. I could write sonnets and sing love songs and never even scratch the surface. You are an enigma, Newton Geiszler, you are a puzzle I could spend the rest of my life solving.” His hand twists suddenly and you jerk forward in surprise and let out the most embarrassing moan. “Feel better?” he smirks and you want to growl at him but you can’t muster anything other than a pathetic whine.

You grab the front of his shirt and pull him over violently just as he’s finishing cleaning off his hand and will thus be sufficiently caught off guard. Your lips crash together like a wave and your teeth are unforgiving but still grateful.

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” but you say it roughly, you say it like it’s an accusation.

“I don’t completely agree,” Hermann frowns but he eyes your spent lips desperately. “But I’m willing to concede.”

…

“Has anyone ever told you,” you say breathlessly, you whisper, you sigh. You close your eyes as if that will make your voice any meeker, make you shake any less, “that your mouth is like a shotgun?”

Hermann shakes his head as he trails his teeth along your jawline. “I don’t quite believe they have,” he responds, the vibrations of his voice deep and warm against your wanton skin.

“It hurts, sometimes,” your chin wobbles and you slip your fingers through his hair, which has grown the slightest bit longer with neglect. He slides down your figure, mouthing and kissing and sucking at your face, your neck, your chest, your stomach. You squeeze your eyes and whine slightly. “It hurts, it hurts.” Your breath lilts with an unseen wound.

“Should I stop?” he lifts his head, tracing around the mark where his mouth just was.

“No, no, no,” you implore. “No, shotguns fire continuously. They must, they must. It hurts but it must. Like all pain.”

“Newton,” he stretches over you, his face creased with concern.

“It feels good, too,” you assure him, pulling him forward to kiss him ever so sweetly, ever so softly, ever so forgivingly. “It feels like a necessary evil. I like it.”

“There don’t have to be any necessary evils, Newton,” Hermann frowns. You frown back. He doesn’t get it. “You don’t have to hurt yourself to feel good.”

“I want to.” All of your breath goes into that one thought. “I want to feel bottom before I reach the top. I don’t want to take shortcuts.”

“Shortcuts?”

“Kiss me again.”

“What shortcuts?”

“Kiss me again, Hermann.”

“Being happy with me is a shortcut? Being present is a shortcut?”

“You don’t get it.”

“I don’t very much think I’d like to.”

“You won’t even try.”

Hermann digs the heels of his hands against his eyelids. “Perhaps I should retire to my own bunker tonight.”

“See what I care,” you sneer, but your whole body feels weightless when Hermann rises from the bed and turns his back. “No—I’m sorry. Hermann, I’m sorry. Don’t do that, I was just being nasty, it’s a reflex. Come back. You don’t have to—I’ll sleep on the floor, just—stay here tonight. I want you to.”

Hermann looks at you for a while before wordlessly sliding back into the small bed. You move to lay on the floor as promised but Hermann’s long fingers snatch at your wrist before you can. Hermann pulls you close to him, wrapping an arm over you and winding his legs between yours. He settles his chin on your head and pushes your nose against his collarbone. You immediately relaxes into him, smiling with relief as you drift off to sleep in Hermann’s arms.

…

“You have to promise to try harder.”

“I will. I am. I’m working on it.”

“You can’t say the things that you say. You can’t keep thinking this way. It’s not good for you.”

“I know. I know.”

“I’m your peer, I’m your partner. I’m not your salvation. I’m not your destruction.”

“My partner.”

Hermann blushes slightly. “We haven’t…discussed it much, but I—”

“I like ‘partner’,” You beam, leaning in closer to laugh and press your noses together. “It’s intimate. It’s ambiguous. It’s comfortable.”

“And that doesn’t scare you?”

“It’s starting not to,” You smile softly. “It’s starting to feel good.”

…

You love him, you love him not.

You love him, you love him not.

You love him, you love him, you love him.

You love him.

And for some reason, now, when you say it out loud, it doesn’t hurt like it used to.


End file.
